


Aegis

by unsettled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alpha Peter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Bonding, Classic Unsettled Ending, Consent Issues, Feral Behavior, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, SOOOOO Many Consent Issues, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 04:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: “I’m not going to hurt you,” Peter says, worried, “I'm just going to take you in, but look, you’re not well, ok, you’re not-”“Stay away from me,” Quentin says, only that smell is tugging at him, pulling at him, whispering alpha, alpha, alpha, whispering look at Peter, look at him, he’s right there, he could solve all of this for you.





	Aegis

_ (One minute Peter’s falling, falling what seems an endless length, and then he’s crashing down on top of a car, in daylight, in something that looks almost real.  _

_ Is it? He has no clue any more, it’s all - something smashes down in front of him, and he looks up, to a bevy of drones descending on him, to glass, falling from the sky.  _

_ And then- _

_ It flickers. _

_ Flickers, like a bad fluorescent light, there and gone and back, again and again.  _

_ He looks around, tries to catch what is flickering and what isn’t, what might be real and what absolutely isn’t, and there, there, he thinks- he thinks that might be Mysterio, Beck, leaning against that column, fiddling with something on his arm.  _

_ “You can’t fool me,” Peter says, and takes a step in Beck’s direction. Beck’s head whips up, and he takes a step back, and another, and then stumbles, catching himself against another column.  _

_ “Edith,” Beck says, “Edith, fucking hide me,” and the remnents of illusions shatter around Peter, Beck fading from view.  _

_ “You can’t hide from me,” Peter shouts, even though he’s not sure that’s true, but he launches himself anyway, not for the last place he saw Beck, but for the space in front of it, the space where there might be a drone, cloaked.  _

_ There is. _

_ It crumples under his hands, and Beck flickers back into sight, just a little further away, curled over on himself and slumped against a block of cement, like there’s something wrong with him, like he’s hurt.  _

_ Peter doesn’t know if he really believes that.  _

_ “You can’t win this,” Peter tells him, “you’re not getting away this time,” and Beck jerks away as Peter walks towards him.  _

_ “Don’t,” he says, his voice harsh, almost strangled. “Don’t fucking touch me.”) _

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Quentin says, his voice rasping oddly. He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind of this fixation on getting away from Peter, on not, no matter the cost, letting Peter touch him. 

Quentin’s not - he doesn’t know what happened, why he feels like this all of the sudden, like he can’t hold even a single thought in his head for a moment. Like everything around him is spinning, uneven. 

He tries again to step back, to get away from Peter, and his balance deserts him, sends him stumbling into another column, clinging to it to try and keep himself from falling over entirely. He feels so hot, feverish, and he can’t seem to catch his breath, almost panting. 

He can see Peter walking towards him, determined, and he needs to - he needs - he needs to get away, he needs to hide, somehow, and he knows there’s a way, he knows there something he can do about that, but he can’t think, he can’t fucking think, what is wrong with him? 

Peter comes closer, closer, and Quentin realizes, with a horrible, blinding clarity, triggered by the thick, amazing,  _ alpha _ scent that slides into his space, inflaming him, that he’s in heat. 

Apparently, Peter realises that at exactly the same time, because he freezes, his head jerking back as he stares at Quentin. “What,” he starts.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” Quentin snarls, shoving himself away from his column and taking a step back, another, needing to get away despite how incapable of it he seems to be. How is this even - he’s nowhere near due for a heat, he’s on fucking suppressents, how is this possibly happening?

He stumbles again, the ground tilting under him, and almost falls over, catching himself at the very last second. He looks up, and Peter’s closer, Peter’s jumped forward like he’s going to catch Quentin. “Don’t you dare,” Quentin hisses, “get away from me!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Peter says, worried, “I'm just going to take you in, but look, you’re not well, ok, you’re not-” 

“Stay away from me,” Quentin says, only that smell is tugging at him, pulling at him, whispering alpha, alpha, alpha, whispering look at Peter, look at him, he’s right there, he could solve all of this for you. 

He doesn’t want that, he tells himself, resisting, he doesn’t want Peter anywhere near him, he doesn’t want a fucking alpha touching him, taking him- 

“Eidth,” he gasps, suddenly, remembering, “Edith, call-”

And he’s cut off, slammed up against the column he’s been clinging to, Peter pressed against him with his hand over Quentin’s mouth, his other forearm on Quentin's neck, pinning him in place. “Don’t,” Peter says, sharp, with weight behind it.

There are omega instincts, Quentin knows, has heard, that you can’t override completely, that never go away throughout generations of change. He hadn’t really believed that, hadn’t believed there was anything about your nature that you couldn’t overcome in some way, and so far he’d only proven himself right, finding ways to disassemble any automatic instincts that arose in him. 

He was wrong, oh, god, he was wrong, because this, he can’t fucking resist this, he can’t fight this, the way Peter's alpha scent floods his senses, the way Peter is pressing on those sensitve, delicate bonding points, the way Peter's voice has slid into a command, all of it overpowering every bit of Quentin’s training and work and slamming him down, sinking him deep into his heat in a way that completely dismantles his ability to think. 

Peter shifts, pulling his arm from Quentin's neck, from his mouth, in a way that makes Quentin feel frantic and needy, and he growls, grabbing at Peter, trying to make him stay, make him need Quentin as badly as Quentin needs him. No, no, a small part of his brain screams, no that’s not what he wants, that’s not, screams louder when Peter strips the controller from his arm, tosses it aside. 

“No,” he says, the fear at losing that pushing hard at his instincts for a moment. “No, don’t, don’t,” and he claws at Peter, uncertain if he’s pushing or pulling or just thrashing, mindlessly. 

Peter grabs his throat again, wraps his fingers around it, thumb under Quentin’s jaw and fingers brushing his ear. “Stop it,” he says, and Quentin's thoughts drain from him again, leaving nothing but need. 

He needs Peter, he wants to tell him, wants to scream, the thought completely overwhelming him, but it’s like words aren’t available, are slipping away. He can’t even tell - he thinks maybe Peter is trying to tell him something, but it’s all just meaningless, unintelligible noise. He doesn’t need words, he doesn’t need to hear anything; he needs Peter, he needs him inside him and filling him and knotting him and claiming him, god, he needs it, he fucking needs it, why doesn’t he have it yet?

Quentin pushes, rocks himself closer against Peter, harder. Groans and tips his head back, tempting, invitingly, and wraps his hands around Peter's arms, his fingers digging in as he pulls at Peter. Come on, he wants to scream, but he can’t, he can’t, and Peter doesn’t seem to be getting the message, still holding back, still. Doesn’t even lean forward and take what Quentin's offering, and that’s awful, that's wrong, wrong, wrong. Why doesn’t Peter want him?

He’ll fucking make Peter want him, he decides, he won’t give him a choice, because Quentin needs him. 

He jerks forward, leans down, pulling against the way Peter has him pinned, and sinks his teeth into Peter's shoulder. 

Peter flinches against him, hard, then leans into Quentin with his full weight, pressing the air from his lungs, impossibly heavy for his size, and Quentin laughs around his mouthful of flesh. Yes, yes, finally, please, he thinks, and then Peter tilts his head up and licks, broad and wet, across that spot on Quentin's neck, along the edge of his beard, and he is  _ gone _ . 

Everything after that is fragmented, unfocused, moments of memories he can’t put in order. Images that pop into his mind like flashbulbs, bright and painful and fading away a moment later: Peter, biting the underside of Quentin’s chin, forcing his head back; the stretch of Quentin’s arms, crossed and pulled high above his head, pinned as he struggles in Peter’s hold; his legs wrapped so tightly around Peter’s slim hips that Quentin’s muscles cramp; Peter rocking into him rather than thrusting, slowly; the smell of his own slick on Quentin’s neck, the taste in his mouth; Peter pulling Quentin’s head down and biting his lip, again and again and again and the sticky wetness of blood; and finally, finally, finally, the fullness, the ache soothed away, the pressure of Peter's knot in him, of feeling it throb and pulse and Peter, Peter biting his neck so hard and so perfect and he can’t, he can't-

When he can register anything at all, it’s the tender, almost raw sensation of Peter nuzzling at his neck, over the mark Peter’s made, kissing and licking and nipping lightly, still knotted in Quentin, and it’s too much, it is far, far too much and Quentin can’t stay still, can’t relax into it, instead squirming and fighting and sobbing out these short gasping breaths, every movement making it all worse by pulling at Peter's knot, deep inside him. 

“Shhhh,” Peter says, “hey, hey,” and leans hard against Quentin, pins his hands a little higher, even, until Quentin can barely move, can barely breathe, it feels like. “Hey, I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Peter whispers, and slides his hand down, down past Quentin's ass to where everything is wet and sticky and dripping, and brings his hand back up, smears the mess of their combined come across the mark on Quentin's neck, fingers brushing against the hair of his beard.

Oh god, Quentin thinks, mindlessly, hopelessly, oh yes, yes, fuck, the smell of it all grounding him, winding its way through his own scent, tangling it up with Peter's in a way that feels intoxicating. He yanks his arms at Peter's hold, hard, because he wants, he needs them, he fucking wants-

Peter lets them go, and yes, that’s what he wanted, he wanted to be able to grab at Peter, to hold his shoulders and his neck and wind his fingers in Peter's hair and pull him in, up, kiss him and hold him there and just, have him. 

Peter lets him, gives in so easily, happily, smiling against his mouth. ”Oh my god,” Peter whispers, “you’re so- this is so perfect, you’re perfect, I’m so glad, so, so glad, I’m not going to let you go now.” Quentin feels amazing, feels like everything is perfect, his alpha so pleased with him, filling him up and wrapping him in their bond and happy, happy, so fucking happy, that he did this for Peter. 

It can’t last, of course, nothing that high can be held onto for very long, and he quiets as he comes down off it. Rests, peacefully, in Peter's grip, head bowed down to press against Peter’s shoulder as Peter holds him up against the wall, one arm supporting Quentin, one arm on the wall, keeping them both up. Quentin feels confined, pent in somehow, despite how slight Peter feels against him, how oddly delicate. He feels content, safe, in a way he can’t ever remember feeling. 

There’s a soft, calm pressure in his mind, something that feels almost like he is feeling, but isn’t his, he can tell. It’s comforting, and he presses back against it, gently; can feel how it turns to regard him, sifting through his feelings as well. That’s good, he thinks, fuzzily, that’s great, Peter should know how he feels without Quentin having to try and put it into stupid, impossible words. 

Peter huffs out a little laugh, rests his head against Quentin's shoulder. “Yes,” he says, “I hear you, I’ve got you.” 

Good, Quentin thinks, good, good. 

He couldn’t tell you how long they stay like that, quiet, still, their emotions sliding through each other’s, enmeshing themselves. Not nearly long enough. 

There’s a shift, an easing, and then Peter’s knot is softening, shrinking, and Peter moans as his cock slides out of Quentin, leaving him gaping, horribly, horribly empty. Quentin whines, helplessly, and Peter kisses him. 

Peter kisses him, and strokes his hair, briefly, and like the flicker of an illusion coming online, Quentin remembers. 

No, he thinks, feeling Peter’s hands on him, gripping him; no, at the slick, disgusting slide of liquid on his thighs; no, no, no, at the bite throbbing on his neck,  _ no. _

He starts, jerking against Peter’s hold, and Peter stiffens as well, feeling the way panic is welling up in Quentin’s mind. He pushes, softly, gently, into Quentin’s thoughts,  _ I’ve got you, it’s ok, I have you, I promise, _ and no, no no no  _ no, _ Quentin screams, at the intrusion of Peter in his head. 

“Get off me,” he snarls, “get off, get off, get out of my fucking head!”

Peter tries, for a moment, to hold him, to contain him, like he thinks he can trap Quentin into behaving, and Quentin screams at him, wordless, thrashing in Peter’s grip and fighting, clawing and biting and kicking, frantically trying to escape, unable to pit his strength and weight against Peter in a way that makes him feel horribly, terrifyingly helpless. 

“I’m not yours,” he spits out, “how fucking dare you, I don’t belong to you!” Peter’s grip breaks, finally, and Quentin wrenches himself away, gaining what little space he can. “You don’t  _ have _ me!”

“What the fuck,” Peter says, startled, as he backs away, his hands up, and Quentin can feel Peter’s confusion, his hurt, in Quentin’s mind and it’s awful, it’s so incredibly awful.

“Quentin,” Peter says, quietly, like he’s trying to soothe Quentin, like Quentin is some sort of wild thing, unreasonable, like this isn’t a perfectly acceptable reaction to being forcibly bonded during a heat, like there’s something wrong with  _ Quentin. _

“Don’t,” Quentin hisses, “don’t speak to me, don’t look at me, don’t fucking touch me,” his voice rising to a shout as Peter reaches forward. Quentin stumbles back, away from him, wanting to just turn and run. He doesn’t feel like himself, doesn’t feel right or human or anything even close to sane, everything tangled in his mind, instincts fighting against training and fear and twisting him up in knots.

He’s shaking, panting, his ears ringing so loudly he can barely hear anything, and he gags; he’s going to be sick, he’s going to - 

He can’t, he absolutely cannot, can  _ not  _ let Peter see him as weak, like this. Can not let Peter start to think of Quentin as something that needs Peter, something that Peter should keep, close and safe and caged. The last thing he wants to do is trigger that aggressive protectiveness lurking in every alpha. 

Quentin has a plan, though, if he can just keep Peter away from him a little longer, a little more. Peter’s watching him, carefully, intently, despite how Quentin told him not to, and Quentin cannot help the way he bares his teeth, compulsively, at Peter, warning him. Peter tilts his head, rightfully wary for once, and leans back, spreads his hands wide, as unthreatening as any alpha could ever be. 

“You don’t have me,” Quentin tells him, viciously, wanting to tear into Peter almost as much as he’s needing to escape. “I’m not - I’m not something you can have, I’m not some fucking possession, you don’t get to have me like that.”

“That’s not,” Peter says, startled, “that’s not at all what I mean, Quentin, of course I don’t have you like that, that’s not - I just mean, I can - I’m here, right? I’m here,” he continues, sounding lost, confused, “you can have that, you can just, believe that, like, I’m going to be there, I’ve - I’ve got your back!”

He’s talking, Quentin thinks, furiously, even though Quentin had said not to. Such a fucking alpha trait, to not  _ listen. _

“I told you,” he says, as he steps to the side, and then again, “I told you, don’t look at me, don’t talk to me,” circling, carefully, watching, waiting, as Peter steps with him, trying to inch closer with every step, like he thinks Quentin won’t notice. “I  _ told _ you,” Quentin says, and he’s so angry, so furious, so wounded, “but you won’t listen, will you, you just can’t help yourself, can you.”

“I can listen,” Peter says, desperately, like he’s trying to bargain. “I can - just, tell me what you want, I can figure something out, I can fix this, get you what you want.” He’s still pushing across the bond, shoving worry and calm and this awful, sickening tenderness that makes Quentin want to destroy him. He just needs to get a little closer, a little more, another step, two-

“Please,” Peter adds, “please just let me.”

And then, there, Quentin’s where he wants to be; he lunges for the controller that Peter had stripped from him, thrown aside. He grabs it, and does some mental shoving of his own, sending his disgust and anger and fear across the bond, like knives. “I don’t want that,” Quentin throws at Peter, “I don’t want  _ you,” _ and he means it, he means it, he means it. 

Peter sucks in a breath, and Quentin presses his fingers to the pad in a pattern he knows by heart, cloaking himself. 

“Why?” Peter cries. “Why don’t you you want me? I thought-”

“Edith,” Quentin whispers, but Peter’s head still turns toward him. “Play out the final illusion sequence.” 

Peter stumbles as the sequence starts, as his world narrows in, everything crashing around him, flinching and ducking and trying to fend off things that aren’t really there. 

“Why would I want you?” Quentin says, letting Peter see an illusion of him, for a second, sending Peter lunging in that direction. “You’re nothing, you’re just a scared kid.”

“That’s not true!” Peter says, even as he falls, rolling away from whatever he thinks is falling on him. 

“You don’t have the first idea of what is true,” Quentin says, and Peter reaches in his actual direction, not the illusion’s, sending Quentin lurching back, panic spiking. Peter steps closer, the wrong direction from where Quentin wants him, almost ignoring the illusion for a moment, intent. 

“I can feel you,” Peter says, “I can feel how scared-” and Quentin twitches, because that’s not true, that’s not. “Quentin, wait, wait, just listen to me, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to, going to trap you or anything like that, please, you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you!” Quentin shouts, and turns, steps back, lets Peter actually see him through the illusion, Peter immediately going for him, and it doesn’t matter, he’s not going to let Peter get him again. 

“Please,” Peter says, his voice thick, like he’s on the edge of crying, “Quentin, this doesn’t have to go like this, I can fix it. I just want to protect you, keep you safe,” and that, that is exactly what Quentin does not want. ‘Safe’ is a trap, a cage, an excuse for every restriction and rule and whim an alpha decides on, safe is anything but. 

He leads Peter on, plays out the dizzying illusion sequence until Peter’s on the tracks, until he can hear the rumble of the train approaching, and then kills the illusion. 

“You can’t,” he tells Peter, who stares at him, tears on his face. “You can't do any of that, and you can’t have me.”

“Quentin,” Peter gasps out, reaching for him, stepping forward, and Quentin flinches back. 

“Don’t you  _ dare _ ,” he spits, and then the train is there, Peter turning his head just in time to see, and realize, and send a spike of fear through the bond. 

Quentin feels it, the second the train hits Peter, like he’s been hit himself, and he screams, screams until he can’t breathe and collapses, curled in on himself and hurting, god, fuck, hurting so much he can’t think, can’t move. 

It’s devastating, mind boggling, how much he hurts, and he can’t seem to find his way out of that. Blindly, Quentin gropes for the source of the pain, that thick cord between him and Peter, pulsing with pain and horrible, ragged emotions. He finds it, flinches away for a moment, but it’s not going to stop, he can’t take this like Peter can, he’s only human. 

Slowly, struggling, he pinches it shut, presses and squeezes until it thins more and more, until it’s just a slim, delicate thread between them, just a faint echo of pain coming through, barely enough contact for him to know that somehow, somehow, Peter is still alive. 

Tries, so hard, to do the same to the other thread of pain lodged inside him, a howling, mindless grief that plays out that moment, of Peter’s face seconds before the train hits him, whispers, agonized,  _ why, why, why? _

Because he can, Quentin screams back at it, shoving it aside, shredding the feelings that swell in him, despair and disbelief and staggering pain. Because he’s not Peter’s, because he belongs to  _ himself. _

Gradually the outside world starts to filter in, and he finds he’s down, on the ground in the dirt, on his knees and hunched over, both arms wrapped around himself and his head almost touching the ground, so tense that every muscle aches. He’s sobbing, messily, loudly, making these awful choked moans like he’s some kind of animal. He can feel the air brushing by him, over his skin, and he realizes again that’s he’s mostly naked, exposed.

He concentrates as hard as he can on getting his breathing under control, on stopping those noises, on shoving all those awful lurking emotions into a black hole in his head, one thing at a time, still almost more than he can handle. Eventually, his breathing evens out, only an occasional moan escaping. He slides his arms forward, beneath his head, and leans on them, closing his eyes and letting himself try and rest in that safe, black space for a moment.

“Quentin,” he hears, quietly, inside his head, and he freezes.

They heard, he thinks, with blind panic, they heard, oh god they heard - heard everything, they know, they heard him- and Peter, they- no, no,  _ no _ .

For a really horrible second he thinks of just waiting for another train, and then dismisses the thought entirely. 

“Are you there?” William asks, his voice tinny through the earpiece. “Are you - do you need a pick up?” he asks, carefully. 

“No,” Quentin bites out, his voice hoarse, wrong. “No. I don’t- I’m fine.”

“It’s just,” William starts, and Quentin can’t, he can not-

“I’m fine!” he shouts, maybe almost screams, as much to himself as to William.

“Ok,” William says. “Ok. We’ll - I’ll - be here when you’re ready.” 

This is Peter's fault, Quentin thinks, savagely, furiously, as he pushes himself up, rubs his hands over his face, raking his fingers through the disgusting mess of his beard and pressing his palms against his eyes. Peter’s fault, he growls, as he finds his clothes and dresses, aching, for touching him, for taking him, for using him; how fucking  _ dare _ he? Peter’s fault for being the kind of alpha that can’t control themselves, the dangerous kind. 

Peter’s fault for having the insane, unchecked audacity to bond him, like some sort of - like he belongs to Peter, even for the length of a heat. Peter’s fault for making him  _ want _ it, even for a moment, even for a second.

For making him want it, even now, even still, like Peter’s taken something from him, Peter’s stolen something that Quentin didn’t even know existed. For making him feel, making feel like this, hollowed out, destroyed.

It’s all Peter’s fault, he decides, latching onto his anger, his outrage, letting it fill that black hole that’s opened inside him. Maybe the original plan didn’t call for his death, maybe he hadn’t wanted to kill Peter at all, but now? 

Now he is going to make Peter pay for this.

“I need,” he starts, pauses. He doesn’t want to need anything, right now. “Give me a disguise, something inconspicuous,” he says.

“Done,” William says, and the drone still next to Quentin whirls quietly, drifts above him, light projecting down around him. “See you soon?” he asks, tentatively.

“Yeah,” Quentin answers.

Not that soon, though.

He’s planning on walking back, despite the way every step hurts a little. He wants the time to think, to put his thoughts back in order. But most of the people he passes, even if they can’t see the mess he is under this illusion, glance at him sharply, or sniff, able to tell something is off about him, that he shouldn’t be out, smelling like this. 

He breaks, finally, when some alpha stops, and steps towards him, eyes narrowed. “Who let you go like that?” he says, angry, protective. 

“Fuck off,” Quentin tells him, and quickens his step. 

He gets a cab at the next corner, with a nice, average beta. A placid beta, who starts when he gets in, looks at him in the mirror, watches him carefully. 

Quentin gives him an address near their base. “An extra forty in it,” he says, sharp and brittle, “if you keep your fucking mouth shut,” and he knows it’s suspicious, too aggressive, but everything is grating against his mind, his nerves.

The driver raises his eyebrows, but “Done,” he says, and he’s as good as his word.

Quentin rests his head against the glass of the window and starts fitting himself back together. 

When he walks in, no one’s there, lights out except for the one in the little office William’s appropriated. He should probably be grateful William cleared everyone out, that he doesn’t have to walk that gauntlet, but it still rubs at him, against his raw irritability. 

“Shit,” William says, when he steps into the office, when he gets a whiff of how awful Quentin smells. And then, shocked, when Quentin lets the illusion unwrap from him, “Jesus, Quentin, what-” He stops, looks down. 

Yeah, Quentin thinks. You know exactly what happened. 

He collapses in one of the chairs. “I need a drink,” he says, and William is kind enough to pour him a double. 

He sips at it cautiously, his stomach still twisting and for a horrible moment he thinks it’s going to come back up. It tastes wrong, it smells wrong, everything feels wrong. 

He looks up, and William is staring at the bite on his neck. 

Quentin barely resists the urge to cover it, and says, instead, “We’re still on track for London.” 

William blinks. “You’re sure?” he asks, “I mean…”

“I got fucked,” Quentin snaps, “not brain damaged. London’s still on.” 

William puts his hands up, placating. “Alright,” he says, “the timetable is still looking good.” 

Quentin closes his eyes for a minute. This feels … better, slightly, safer. Not good, not right, but not quite as awful. He knows William is as steady as they come. He knows William won’t hold a grudge, for Quentin’s little moment of frustration, about the missing projector; he’s seen worse, dealt with worse. 

He knows William isn’t going to say a damn word, about any of this, to anyone. 

“I’m going to kill him,” Quentin says. “That fucking-” He shakes his head.

“How the hell did he even get a drop on you?” William asks. 

“I don’t know,” Quentin says.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t fucking know,” Quentin shouts. Takes a deep breath. Takes another sip of his drink. 

“You weren’t due,” William says cautiously, though that’s not really something he should have been keeping tabs on. Quentin lets it pass.

“I know,” he says. 

“You’re on-” William starts.

“I  _ know _ .”

There’s silence, William drumming his fingers on the desk, quietly. “Well,” he says, “they aren’t perfect, I guess.” 

“I think,” Quentin says, carefully, turning the idea over in his head, hating it. “I think there’s something off about Peter, the way he - his whole system is off, his metabolism and healing and strength. Maybe that’s why.” 

“That’s not great,” William says. 

“It won’t matter once he’s dead,” Quentin says, grimly, and tosses back the rest of his drink, grimacing as it burns all the way down. 

“You think you can?” William asks, “If he -” he nods, at Quentin's neck. “That’s not going to be easy, killing your alpha.” 

“He’s not my-” Quentin snarls, and then stops. Because he is, isn’t he. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “I already shoved him in front of a fucking train. It’s not my fault he’s a freak and didn’t die.” 

“Yeah, that’s … that’s a good sign, I guess,” William says, looking a little shocked. Why is he surprised, Quentin thinks, irritably, it’s not like Quentin hasn’t done, planned on doing, much worse than killing a single stupid teenager. Even if that teenager is also his alpha. 

There are words for omegas that kill their alphas, and none of them are nice. 

“Any changes?” William asks.

“We need to add in a subroutine to keep that little shit away from me,” Quentin says. “Assign a few more to my detail or something. I don’t want to give him any opportunities.” 

“Ok,” William replies. “I’ll get on that.” 

“Edith,” Quentin adds, “make sure Peter’s class gets routed through London. And you,” he says to William, “find some way to make sure they’re in place on the bridge when this all goes down.” 

“Right, got it,” William says. “Anything else?”

Quentin brings a hand up, grasps at his forehead. “Yeah,” he says, trying to ignore the roiling in his stomach and failing. “I need an alpha.”

He can practically hear the way William freezes. “Ah,” he says, “um. Ok. Any- anyone in particular?”

“Fuck, I don’t care,” Quentin snaps. “Any of them will do.” 

“Right, right,” William says, backing away, turning for the door. “I’ll just … I’ll get someone.” 

Quentin takes a deep breath and fuck, he can smell - he can smell so much and all of it’s awful. “Wait,” he says, still not looking at William. “Pick someone - someone who’s unimportant.” 

Because he can’t- he doesn’t think he can put up with working with some fucking alpha that has helped Quentin through his heat, with seeing them every time he comes in. 

He can barely deal with the thought that such an alpha will exist out there in the world, and William knows that too. 

Unimportant really mean expendable. 

Which is exactly who he’s brought, some low level analyst who was laid off for being on the bottom of the chain and mediocre at his job, who took it way too hard and joined their little band. Quentin can’t even remember his name, really, maybe Jake or John or something like that. 

He’s a good, solid alpha though, old school, not one of those hesitant ones that look for permission, who try to be comforting. 

They’ve relocated to one of the rooms set aside for people without somewhere to go, transitories, and it’s dismal and small but it has a bed, and if Quentin’s going to have to put up with being knotted for any length of time, he’s going to want that. 

“Right then,” he says. “Let’s get on with it.” 

And Jake - Jerry, maybe? - hesitates. “Do you want me to, um-”

“I want you for your knot,” Quentin says, sharp and irritated, “not for your brain or your mouth.” He settles onto the bed, on his hands and knees, vulnerable, exposed, but it’s better than having to look at an alpha while he’s knotted.

Tries, very hard, to shove away the memory of looking at Peter, safe and secure and knotted and never wanting it to stop.

God, he hates this.

There’s the sound of a zipper, and fabric rustling, and then the bed dips behind him; why does this alpha smell so awful, like something gone rotten? 

Jerry - actually, he’s pretty sure it is John - puts a hand on Quentin’s ass and it’s awful, it’s so fucking awful, like his skin wants to crawl off him. He flinches; what the hell? 

“Come on,” he hisses, “hurry up.” 

He doesn’t know what this feeling is; he hasn’t let himself have that many heats but this doesn’t feel like any of them have, this mix of hunger and need blended with disgust, with a sick feeling in his stomach, this utter revulsion. Whatever, he thinks, irritated, it’ll go away once he’s been knotted, once this bullshit is over and he can get back to killing Peter. 

He can feel the blunt tip as John sets his cock against Quentin’s hole, wet and slick, and he swallows hard, trying not to throw up. 

John pushes in, one long, hard stroke, and Quentin loses his goddamn mind. 

He’s not even - he doesn’t know how he got here, how one minute he’s on his hands and knees and impaled by an alpha, and the next he’s standing, baring his teeth at the alpha under his hand, backing him up against the wall with Quentin's hand around his throat, tight, fingernails cutting into his skin. The alpha is limp, unresisting, his eyes wide and scared, and Quentin thinks savagely how that’s the only thing keeping him alive, how dare he touch him, how dare he try to take what belongs to someone else, how dare he-

He blinks, his chest heaving with the way he’s gasping, and lets go. Stumbles back and looks at John in shock; what the  _ fuck _ ?

“You smell wrong,” he bites out, and then, “get out. Get out, fuck off!” 

John doesn’t waste any time scrambling for the door, and Quentin yells after him, “Tell William to get someone better, dammit!” 

He paces the room while he waits, agitated and itchy, twitchy, like something is driving him. What the fuck was that, he’s never - he’s never even heard of someone reacting like that, what is going on, why does everything smell so wrong? He rubs at his neck, where it’s throbbing, burning like a brand. 

The door opens again, and it’s not someone unimportant this time, it’s fucking Jamison, Doug. Also probably the most alpha of all the alphas in this group, if he thinks about it. 

He smells even worse, god, like something that died days ago. Quentin wrinkles his nose, gags. 

Doug takes one step towards him, just one, and that’s enough, that’s too much, Quentin can feel how this thing lurches to life inside of him, angry and defensive and vicious, snarling. He’ll kill him, he’ll fucking kill him, he’ll rip him apart if he tries to touch him, Quentin doesn’t belong to  _ him _ , how dare he even think, how dare he try-

He lunges at Doug, and Doug steps out of the way, quickly. Snags Quentin by the back of his neck as Quentin rushes by him, starts to turn, and Quentin freezes for a moment, overwhelmed by the hold. He shivers, shudders, unable to resist, and then, then-

Then he feels the push, the way Doug floods him with alpha scent, with command, and it’s so awful, it’s like garbage has crawled down his throat. “Go down,” Doug says, with the full weight of an alpha command behind it, forceful, at a high enough level to send most omegas crashing to the floor. 

Quentin turns his head and bites Doug’s arm, hard, tasting blood. 

Doug curses, and lets go of him, tries to jerk his arm away, but Quentin isn’t letting go, won’t; he wants, he wants to hurt him so, so much.

“Alright,” Doug says, “hey, alright,” and he’s doing something strange, pulling in his scent, making himself small, somehow. “Hey, it’s ok, Quentin, I’m not going to do anything, you’re his, I get it.” 

Quentin releases Doug’s arm, feeling blood drip down his chin, clinging to his beard, and stares at him. Slowly, Doug lowers himself, until he’s kneeling on the ground, his arms away from his body, hands open, blood running down his wrist. 

“You’re his,” he says. “I got it, I hear you, I’m not contesting. I won’t touch you,” and Quentin feels something ease slightly inside him, that overwhelming urge to fight pulling back, leaving him able to think, a little. 

God, his neck is throbbing. He puts his hand over it, over the spot that feels raw, like an open wound. 

Doug’s eyes follow his hand. “Yeah,” he says, “I see, he’s got you good, I understand,” which is good, which is calming to Quentin, but he does not fucking understand  _ why. _

“I’m going to go, ok?” Doug says, “I’m going to leave, let you be, alright?” That’s acceptable, that’s right, he should be gone; Quentin dismisses him from his mind, unimportant, inconsequential. 

He paces some more, not thinking, not waiting, just driven, unable to stop. He hits the wall at one point, pounds it with his fist and feels like he wants to break it down, like it’s holding him in, trapped. Like there’s something on the other side he needs to get to, more than anything. 

William comes in, then.

“I don’t want you,” Quentin snaps, even though William doesn’t smell nearly as awful. “I told you, I need a goddamn alpha, one that doesn’t smell like shit. What the hell is wrong with them?”

“Quentin,” William says, carefully, all beta, all calming, soothing beta, “none of these alphas are going to be able to help you.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Look,” William says, “I didn’t realize when I saw the mark, ok? I thought it was just, heat marking, that’s all. I didn’t know it was a bond.” 

“So?” Quentin says, turning on William. “So what if it is?”

“Quentin,” he says, patiently, “you can’t be with another alpha. You’re bonded, you’re- you’re pair bonded,” and Quentin jerks, flinches away from him, because fuck, no, no, he’s not, he’s fucking not.

“You’re going to go after any alpha we send in here,” William continues. “Doug’s the best we’ve got, and he’s really good; if he can’t put you down then no one is going to be able to. You know it, you know you belong to someone that isn’t any of them and you’re not going to tolerate them at all. It’s just … you can’t help it, Quentin.”

And yeah, shit, fuck, that fits, doesn’t it. That fucking fits everything, the smell and the aggression and wrongness of it all, the defensive, protective way he feels about letting someone else- “Fuck,” he says, “fuck! Goddammit!” 

He hits the wall, over and over again, until his knuckles are bleeding. There are hands on his arm then, hands he doesn’t immediately want to rip off, so that's something, he supposes. 

“Quentin, stop, stop,” William says, his hands around Quentin’s wrist. “I’m sorry, ok, I don’t - we could try a beta, but I don’t think, I don’t think it’d work. Not with you like this, in your bonding heat. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not going to stop, is it?” Quentin says. “I’m going to be stuck like this for the entire fucking heat.”

“Yeah,” William says, “probably. It’s going to suck, sorry. Most people don’t get separated from a bonder so early on.” 

“Fuck,” Quentin says. “Ok. Ok, fine. I need - I need you to get the alphas out of the way, send them somewhere else, unless they can do what Doug did, and even then, get them ready to go if I need it.” 

“What?” William starts, “Wait, what?” 

Quentin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I need you to go get things ready for go,” he says. “We don’t have time to waste. Peter’s not dead, I can fucking feel him, and he’s not going to roll over and give up. I just - I need a couple of minutes.”

“Jesus, Quentin, you can’t work like this,” William says, startled. “That’s not - you can’t possibly.”

“Don’t tell me what I can do,” Quentin growls, his attention focusing, sharpening. 

William backs away, hands up. “You’ve got it,” he says. 

Quentin sits, tries hard to still himself, still everything. He can feel, faintly, distantly, the flutter of another heart in his chest, the blank, unconscious mind of Peter. Can, if he opens up the bond even a smidge, feel the pain he’s in, agonizing and overwhelming. 

He feels around, digs in his mind, his thoughts, until he can feel that thread of a line again. Holds onto it, cautiously, and for a few moments, lets himself feel the full weight of his heat, of the desperate, mindless hunger for his bondmate, of the desire driving him, drowning him, the blind killing rage at anyone who would dare try and take him from Peter. Feels it all, raw and awful and heavy, like being hit over the head, and yanks open the bond.

The pain floods him, but he’s ready for it this time, gritting his teeth and riding it, shoving all the things he’s thinking of into the bond instead, as hard as he can, violently, until he starts to feel like a person again, like he fits inside his skin. He keeps pushing, until he feels almost hollowed out, pushing and pushing and pushing, until there’s almost nothing left, just the echoes of pain, and then he squeezes it all shut again, until Peter is nothing more than a distant ghost in his mind. 

He feels awful. Not like delayed, ruined heat awful, not like this alpha smells wrong awful, but physically, mentally, like he’s done something truly terrible, something unforgivable in a way that he finds almost nothing to be. 

And he knows, he knows why, he knows. Knows what he’s done, denying his heat, denying his alpha, denying - denying everything about this fucking nightmare, like he’s some kind of- like _ he’s  _ the one who’s hurting Peter, the one who’s been taking advantage. 

Maybe he is, he thinks, viciously, almost pleased despite the way it floods him with guilt, with dread. Maybe Peter hurt him, but he can hurt Peter back, he can drive all the horrible things he’s feeling and the way his body is betraying him onto Peter, instead, feel as it tears into Peter, all Quentin’s omega imperatives forced onto him, onto an  _ alpha,  _ onto a mind not made for those things.

Maybe he can hurt Peter, maybe he is hurting Peter, but right now even the anger isn’t enough, and all he wants is to curl up in a ball and give himself over to the misery of this awful feeling, and he can’t, he can’t. He fucking won’t. 

There’s a tiny little bathroom attached to this room, a sink and a toilet and a shower head, the floor tiled with a lip to keep the water from flooding out. He tries as best he can to wash some of the mess off of him, the dirt and filth and slick, the smell of Peter’s come on him. Scrubs, hard, and then harder, at the burning spot on his neck that won’t stop stinking of Peter. He knows, he knows what that means but he doesn’t want to think about it. 

He catches a glimpse of it in the mirror while he’s drying off, and it reels him in, shocked. It’s huge, luridly red, blooming across almost the entire left side of his neck, up to his ear, so dark it’s still visible through his beard, and outward almost to the edge of his shoulder, the imprint of Peter's teeth dark in the very center, over the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Jesus, he thinks, there’s no hiding that, there’s no- no denying it, fuck. He touches it, gingerly, and the resulting feeling is ... it hurts, but not in an unpleasant way. 

He thinks, for a moment, of Peter biting him, claiming him, holding on to him through his orgasm and knotting, how that had felt, how that had- 

I’m going to fucking kill him, he thinks, furious. 

When he comes out, the main floor is a hive of activity, everyone moving around, gathering up their supplies and packing, double checking everything. He makes his way down to William, where he’s directing the flow and keeping an eye on the people prepping his screens for travel. 

He ignores the way people start as he passes them, the way they stare or step away. Ignores, too, the people missing, the alphas missing, tries and fails to completely ignore those few left, making themselves small and still reeking, stinking, awful. 

“Where are we at?” he asks, striving for calm, for back in control. 

William gives him a sidelong glance, a little worried. 

“On schedule,” he says, “sending out the prep team and the first layer now, want to make sure there’s no chance of delays. The rest of us will follow in the morning.” 

“Great,” Quentin says. “Pull the illusion team, I want to do a run through.” 

“Um,” William says, “ok, sure, we can do that. I’ll just … clear this out a bit.” 

Quentin leans against the wall and watches, waits. This needs to be perfect. He needs - he needs to know he can do this, perfectly, no matter what kind of condition he’s in. 

So they run it. And he’s… he’s fine. He’s acceptable.

Acceptable isn’t good enough, he thinks. “Again,” he says.

This time is better, better, but not good enough. He had to stop, had to breath and shove the rising sickness of his heat at Peter again, had to ride out the flash of his pain, and it was a stutter in the illusion, an unacceptable stutter. It has to be fucking perfect. “Again,” he says.

He’s almost got it this time, he thinks. He had to push his heat away, again, feels like it’s coming onto him faster, more often now, but it hadn’t even made him pause, hadn’t been any more than a blink.

“Again,” he says, “back to start,” and William pulls him aside. Carefully. 

“Quentin,” he says. “You have to stop. You have to sleep.” 

“I don’t. Not yet,” Quentin says, irritably. “It’s fine, I’ve got this sorted now.” 

“Ok, maybe that's true, and honestly, I don’t know how you’re doing this, but everyone’s getting tired. You said it yourself, we’re trying to fool seven billion people, we need to be on point. Tired people make mistakes, Quentin.” 

Quentin hesitates, and fuck, he hates this, he’s functioning but he’s not - he’s not where he should be, he’s going through the motions but he can’t focus, can’t think clearly. He doesn’t fucking hesitate. 

“They need to sleep,” William says, insistent. “You need to sleep.” 

Queintin bites the inside of his cheek. Thinks. “Fine,” he says, sighs, and taps his hand against his leg, feeling twitchy, still, like there’s bugs under his skin. “Fine, have them set back to start and then switch to skeleton crew. We’ll do a final runthrough in the morning. Have Victoria’s set up taken care of before then.” 

“We’ve got it, Quentin,” William says. “Please, do us all a favor and sleep.” 

Easier said than done, because Quentin does not want to fucking sleep. Yeah, he knows, he knows he needs to, he doesn’t have any wiggle room for being overtired, for making mistakes, but his mind is so wound up, so insistently pushing away at the feeling of Peter in his head, that he doesn’t feel like he even could sleep. 

Regardless, he does. 

It’s awful, nightmarish. Whatever work he was doing when awake to shove Peter away, mask the heat symptoms and escape the pain Peter’s broadcasting all breaks down when he sleeps. He dreams, endlessly, exhaustingly, not his own dreams, but Peter’s, trapped in Peter's mind as Peter drifts, unconscious, turning over all the nightmares Quentin threw his way. And he feels, he feels Peter, still in agony, how Peter’s still feeling stabbing pains in his side with every breath; feeling the horrible deep ache of a femur trying to reknit itself, of his shoulder, wrenched out of place and stuck there until Peter can reset it, but trying to heal anyway; feeling the shifting bones in his wrist, his arm, the way his head throbs and bleeds. 

Quentin feels it, and dreams it, and can’t escape from any of it. 

There’s a shift, then, a moment - a pause almost, where Peter is pulled up, out of the link with Quentin, back into consciousness for a moment. Quentin is alone again, is distantly aware of someone saying something to Peter, of Peter's confusion, incomprehension, of Peter moving, stumbling, being pulled along, unable to think, to respond. Peter hurts and he can’t think, he can’t reason, but he can feel, and Quentin feels it too, the moment when Peter reaches for the bond, reaches for whatever feels safe in his mind. 

Feels it, when Peter latches onto it and digs in, draws from Quentin the sensation of not hurting, of silence around him, of lying on something more comfortable than the cement Peter’s on. Draws from him the banked coals of Quentin's heat, as well, bringing it roaring back up, consuming Quentin, Peter reaching for it and pulling, pulling, pulling. 

Quentin wakes, panting, unable to think, the very air almost painful against his skin, every bit of his heat that he’d managed to shove away slamming into him at once, and he needs, he needs Peter so badly, he has to have him, he has to- 

He keens, slaps his hand over his mouth and tries to muffle himself, wanting to scream for Peter, wanting to just scream and scream and scream. He bites his hand instead, aiming for a pain to anchor him, but it barely breaks through the driving need. 

He can feel Peter, still there in his mind, like he’s watching from a great distance, unfocused and confused. He needs him, but Peter’s not there and he can’t go to Peter and- he- he fucking needs- 

Quentin tries, again, like before, to shove all this back at Peter, to make him take on the weight of it all, but it doesn’t work; Peter’s already drawing it from him, somehow making it worse instead of better. He sobs, almost mindless with need, with how badly he is aching, how empty, how terribly, horribly in need of his alpha’s knot. 

He knows it’s useless, knows it won’t help, doesn’t even like the thought of it at all, but he’s so fucking desperate, so empty, that surely something is better than nothing. Surely, he tells himself, fisting one hand in the sheets as he slides his other hand down, touches the disgusting slick of his hole, surely something is better, as he slides his fingers into himself, too small and too short and not enough, is better than nothing, surely?

Three fingers isn’t enough, four fingers isn’t enough, and he knows nothing is going to be enough, nothing is going to help him except Peter’s fucking knot. He’s drowning, he can’t breathe, and he reaches for Peter, unable to stop himself, mindlessly begging for something he can’t even name, for Peter, as impossible as that is. 

And Peter- stirs. Takes notice, more actively than before, and presses into Quentin's mind, just a little, and it’s like Quentin's been given a gasp of air, of hope.  _ Please, _ he begs Peter, _ please, please, _ and Peter shifts into Quentin's mind more, pushes against it in a way that hurts, but he doesn’t want Peter to stop, he needs this. 

He doesn’t know what it is that Peter does, if there are even words for it, but abruptly it’s almost like Peter is there, like Peter is on top of him, pressing him down into the bed, weighing him down. There’s nothing actually there, just air, but it feels, it feels like Peter has him, has Quentin wrapped up and taken care of, like Peter’s whispering into his ear,  _ I’ve got you, gorgeous, I’ve got you.  _

And it feels, too, like Peter is touching him, like Peter is inside him, like somehow he’s thrusting in alongside Quentin’s fingers, settling into him and filling him up, filling that horrible need and hunger and ravaging thing inside of him. 

Filling him, so close to overflowing, so close but not, a maddeningly short distance. Quentin grasps desperately for more, for that last little bit more, but it’s not there, there’s nothing more in Peter to draw from. He needs it, he needs that last little bit, needs it enough to try anything to do anything, and he pushes himself at Peter, gives himself over, unresisting.

It’s like falling, like everything is dropping away from him, terrifying, and then Peter is there, locked deep inside him, like Peter’s claimed him, the pressure of Peter’s impossible, incredible touch more, better, hooked inside him and around him. That’s it, the bridge for that gap, the last drop to spill over, what Quentin gave Peter. What he needed, what he had to have, what he had to give, and it floods over them, unstoppable, overwhelming.

Quentin cries out, loud, harsh, as he comes, as it feels like Peter pulses inside him; sobs as the feeling rushes through him, spiralling Quentin higher and higher, his thoughts entertwined with Peter's, floating on that rush of endorphins and dopamine. 

And then, suddenly, shockingly, Peter is gone, dropping out of the link and away from Quentin’s body and Quentin is left, empty and aching and shivering and wondering what the fuck just happened. He can still feel Peter if he pries, feel him unconscious again, but alive. 

There’s no more sleeping after that, to be sure. He couldn’t say if the sleep he got before his heat came flooding back actually helped even a bit, and he couldn’t even say if he actually feels better now either. He feels … on edge. Not himself, fragmented, jumbled in his own head. Like his thoughts aren’t all his own. 

He can still feel his heat, starting to burn down but present, itching away in his head. It’s been tempered enough by Peter’s - Peter’s - whatever the hell that was, that it’s not invading his every thought, but he still has to work to shove it aside and focus. And it’s work, it’s harder work than it’s ever been before, to get through a final run through, to send people off and make sure they feel needed, wanted, appreciated, when he just wants to scream at them to stop wasting his time and do their damn jobs. Such work, to pretend to be surprised when Fury calls, to joke with the people left, to dress and disguise himself and get from Berlin, to London, to the bridge. 

So, so much work, when all he really wants is Peter. 

Peter, who’s coming, who he can feel, even through the pinched off thread of their bond. Peter, who is angry, and worried, and so, so determined. 

Peter, who wastes no time doing entirely too good of a job destroying Quentin’s illusions, his drones, destroying fucking everything in his path and this is bad, this is really really bad. He has backups, he always has backups, but this is still really fucking bad. Quentin can feel every single hit Peter takes; muted, sure, but he still feels them, they still rock him back on his feet, send him falling against the glass as Quentin tries to breathe through them. 

When Peter crashes through the glass of the walkway, Quentin already has a drone ready to slam him against the opposite end, away from Quentin. Peter falls, and Quentin feels that, too. 

“Why are you doing this?” Peter asks, strained, as he pushes himself to his feet. “What are you - what do you think you’ll gain, really?” 

“I’ll gain exactly what I wanted to,” Quentin says, “and it doesn’t matter to you what it is, you don’t listen, none of you listen.” None of them do, Quentin thinks, none of  _ you _ do, not unless the person talking is a superhero or an alpha or filthy stinking rich or all of the above, wrapped in a shiny red and gold shell. 

“Fury knows,” Peter says, and he doesn’t sound angry, really, he sounds- “and I know, and my friends know, and - you can’t keep this up, there are too many people that know what’s going on, Quentin.”

“So I’ll have to kill a few more people than planned,” Quentin says, smirking at Peter as he feels that hit, feels it sinking into Peter, hurting. “It’s not going to break my heart.”

“You don’t have to,” Peter whispers, and it’s like he’s next to Quentin, like he’s right there and not across the full length of the bridge. “You can stop,” Peter continues, almost pleading, “just, stop, now, and this can still be fixed, I can still make them listen to me, I can still-”

“God, you’re stupid,” Quentin says, laughs, shaking off the way Peter had wound his words around Quentin, almost, almost snaring him. Peter’s head jerks back, and he looks like Quentin has slapped him, all shocked expression and wide eyes and hurt, pinging across the bond. 

“You’re smart,” Quentin tells him, twisting it, scornful, “so smart, so clever, too smart for your own good, but you don’t have a drop of common sense in you. Not even a smidge of deceit, so you can’t see it, can you. Can’t see it in others, can’t see it when it’s shoved in your face.” 

Peter shakes his head, slowly, and Quentin can feel him grasping at the bond, pressing at it. “No,” he says, “you’re not - you’re not trying to fool me, right now.”

“I’m not talking,” Quentin says, “about myself.” And, when Peter looks at him, blankly, “What did they tell you, Peter? Did they tell you it was safe to bring me in? That I’d be forgiven? That they’d let you go off with your omega, unhindered?”

“It’s going to be fine,” Peter says, and Quentin can hear, can feel the thread of desperation in him.

“Did they tell you that you could protect me?” Quentin asks, and shakes his head. “Did you actually believe it? Oh, Peter. You’ll trust anyone who offers you what you want to hear, and it makes you so easy to take advantage of.” It really does, he thinks, something sinking in his chest, some stupid, lingering hope, dragged back up by seeing how easily Peter had gotten through all his defenses, a fragile thought that maybe, maybe Peter could, would, be able to protect. 

“You can’t protect anyone,” he says, puts as much disgust as he can into it, into what he’s letting Peter feel from him.

“I can,” Peter insists, stubbornly, “I can! You just have to let me, you have to stop this and let me fix it!”

“And if I don’t stop?” Quentin asks, because he still wants this, he still wants to step into that void Tony Stark has left, he still wants that power, that acclaim, he still wants to blot out the insults thrown his way. He still wants to be heard. 

“Please,” Peter says, begs, and that’s answer enough, isn’t it. “Please, just stop, don’t make me-”

Oh, Quentin knows what that means, but he wants Peter to  _ say  _ it. “And if I don’t stop?” he repeats, vindictively. 

“Then I’ll have to stop you,” Peter says, brittle, “I’ll have to, I can’t let you kill people, I can’t - I can’t let it matter, that you’re mine.” 

I’m not yours, Quentin wants to scream, wants to pound into Peter’s stupid, stubborn head until he understands. 

“You think you can stop me?” he says, instead. “You think you can kill me?” because while there are words for omegas who kill their alphas, there are only worse ones for alphas who kill what is theirs. 

Peter flinches. “I don’t- I don’t have to kill you! That’s not the only way to stop you! I’m not going to kill you!” He steps forward, reaching for Quentin, and while he’s still far away it’s not far enough. “I just want-” Peter starts, “I just want you to-”

Quentin cuts him off. “I don’t want you,” he says, “and that’s what really matters.”

“No,” Peter says, “no, that’s not true,” as though he’s surprised. “I can feel you, I can feel what you’re not saying,” and Quentin jerks back, suddenly furious.

“Get the fuck out of my head,” he snaps, “don’t you dare pry like that.”

“I can’t help it,” Peter says, his voice going soft, pained, “please, I know you’re not - I know you’re not feeling like this is the right thing to do. I can feel this isn’t what you want, either.” 

And it's true, sort of, that Quentin doesn’t want to be doing this, that he wants nothing more than to let Peter take him up, let Peter claim him and protect him and make everything right again, let Peter be his, his alpha, his. 

But he can’t; he can feel Peter's disgust at what Quentin has done, is doing, at what Quentin is fine with doing, and feels no remorse for. Feel the determination in Peter to stop him, whatever it takes, trying to steal himself against the protectiveness he feels towards his omega, can feel how Peter is trying to influence him, how Peter has crawled inside Quentin’s mind as much as their thinned bond will let him, and he hates it.

Hates Peter for doing this to him, for having this hold over him. Hates, hates how Peter can’t ever understand him, what Quentin wants, can’t understand his anger or his hurt or his need, more than anything, for vengeance. How Peter can’t ever understand what Quentin has suffered at the hands of his beloved mentor. Give up his hero worship of Tony Stark for Quentin, for his oh so precious omega? Never. 

Hates, he thinks, tiredly, his anger failing him for a moment, hates how Peter can never understand how Quentin has suffered at Peter’s hands, from Peter’s well intentioned actions, from what every instinct Peter has told him was right. Can never, ever understand what Quentin wants, wants so badly, how he wants everything Peter is offering, but more, more, he wants to be safe. 

And he can’t- he can’t be vulnerable like that, he can’t give himself over to someone who might not protect him well enough, not when he’s had a lifetime of being the only person who will protect himself well enough. Who won’t listen, when Quentin ahs had more than enough of not being heard. 

“You think you know what I'm feeling,” he says, “well, feel this,” and he throws that at Peter, that mix of rage and disappointment and hurt, how much he hates Peter, the disgust, revulsion at Peter’s touch. 

Peter falters, takes a step back. And then, a step forward. “That’s not true,” he says, “that’s not, I felt, I felt you,” he says, and shoves back at Quentin, shoves the image of Quentin, flushed and snarling and presenting his neck, of Quentin dazed and lax in Peter’s arms, staring up at Peter happily. The feel of Quentin, filtered through Peter’s pain hazed mind, reaching desperately for Peter, his relief when Peter reached back. The feel, of Quentin, moments ago, reaching for Peter, wistful and wanting and showing Peter what he wants, unconsciously.

“No,” Quentin says, desperately, “no, no, stop it,  _ stop!”  _

Peter takes another step forward. “I know better,” he says, “I know,” and Quentin can’t, he can’t have him get any closer.

“Edith,” he gasps out, “cloaking illusion, now!” 

He can see Peter, can see how Peter stills, tilts his head, closes his eyes. “It’s not going to work, Quentin,” he says, softly. “I can feel you,” and Quentin feels a gentle, delicate tug at their bond. 

“No,” he says, “don’t, don’t, stop,” trying to wrench back control, away from Peter. He can’t let Peter near to him, he can’t or he’s done for, if Peter touches him, if Peter uses his alpha tricks on him, Quentin knows now he can’t stop him, he can’t let him get close. 

But as Peter starts destroying the drones, easily, completely, he realizes he can’t stop him at all. All he can do is kill him, and he will, he can kill him. 

Edith protests when he gives the command to fire and he doesn’t care what she has to say about a kill zone, he needs Peter stopped, he needs him dead, detached from Quentin’s mind. He pulls out his gun, just in case, just as backup, if Edith fails, if Peter gets too close-

It flies from his hand, skitters across the floor as he falls, barely catching himself on one arm, and then even that gives away as the pain really registers, burning and stabbing and awful in his side. He tries to press his hand to it, but that only hurts worse, fuck. 

There’s movement at the edge of his vision, and then Peter’s there, on his knees, grasping at Quentin. “Oh my god,” he says, “oh no, no, you’re not-” He rolls Quentin over, onto his back, and Quentin doesn’t really feel like resisting, not with the smell of his alpha, so close, looming over him, suddenly comforting, safe, like he knew it would be. 

Like the reason he didn’t want Peter to get to close. 

He closes his eyes.

“No,” he hears Peter say, “oh god no, no, ok, you’re going to be fine, we’re going to- it’s fine, it’s ok,” and he feels Peter press down on the wound, hard. He gasps as the pain peaks. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says “I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but I have to stop the bleeding, I have to - where are they, where are the-” and Quentin opens his eyes as Peter pulls the glasses from Quentin’s pocket, yanks them open one handed and shoves them on his face, crookedly. “Edith,” Peter says, frantically, “Edith, get some sort of medical help up here, now!” He looks down at Quentin, his face very white, trickles of blood drying on his cheek. “And kill all illusions,” he adds, “stop it, stop all of it, ok?” 

He presses down on Quentin's side even harder, that scent of protective alpha spiking, flooding over Quentin. He can feel, distantly, across the thread of the bond, Peter’s frantic, awful worry, his fear, the way he’s desperately begging Quentin to stay. 

“Don’t die,” Peter says, out loud, “please, please don’t die. We can- we can fix everything else, ok, somehow, I don’t know, we’ll make it all ok but please, please don’t die.” 

Quentin grins, then, can’t stop himself from laughing, hoarsely, almost more wheezing, the motion jerking his body painfully. 

“What?” Peter says, “What - why are you laughing, why- Edith, this is real, right?” 

God, Quentin thinks, he hates Peter so much, for what he’s done to Quentin, for what he’s made Quentin do, want. He hates him, he hates him, he was ready to put a bullet in his head, and now he can’t - but this, he can have this, he can have the agonizing, endless despair Peter’s feeling, can feel that, know he caused it, know it’s never going to go away for Peter, and he, Quentin, caused it, he  _ hurt _ him. 

Quentin hurt him, and in return, he gets the comfort of his alpha, trying to protect him, trying to save him, begging him. It’s perfect.

There are no words for that, though, nothing that can properly express this horrible, sick delight welling up in him, so he does the next best thing, and grabs the thread of the bond between them. 

Rips at it, dragging it open further and further until it’s not a connection, but a huge, gaping hole, letting his thoughts flood into Peter, displacing Peter’s, pushing Peter's thoughts into Quentin’s mind in return, in a way no sane person ever does, if they want to retain their sense of self. 

But he doesn’t really care about that any more, does he.

Peter gasps, shakes his head, and his hand clenches on Quentin's side. “Why,” he asks, “why are you - you’re so happy, you’re- why? Why?” Quentin can feel him digging, feel him trying to understand Quentin's delight at hurting him, trying to understand how Quentin can be so angry at the way Peter is acting and so comforted by it at the same time. 

He laughs again, uncontrollably, his breath coming shorter and shorter. “I got you,” he hisses, “I  _ got _ you, and you’ll never have me.” 

He sinks, then, into the thick, warm feel of Peter’s protectiveness, his pain, sinks and sinks and sinks, content.

_ (“No,” Peter whispers, as he feels Quentin's breath stop, as his eyes unfocus, his body slackening. “No, no, no, please, come on, wake up, it’s fine, it’s going to fine,  _ please,” _ and he breaks, sobbing, because he can feel, now, he can feel how the connection between them has been ripped away, nothing left but the fragments of Quentin’s thoughts drifting in Peter’s mind.  _

_ That bitter, heavy satisfaction at dying, at hurting Peter, defying his alpha and getting his way, still. And that hurts, that hurts so much, why couldn’t Peter fix that, why wasn’t he a good enough alpha, what did he do that made Quentin hate him so, so much, when they had fit together so well, so perfectly?  _

_ There’s no point in trying to stop the bleeding now, he knows, but he can’t seem to take his hand away. He just kneels there, staring, at the bruise on Quentin’s cheek, half covered by his beard, the blood on his lips, the broken earpiece dangling from a wire.  _

_ The dark, vivid bite on his neck, the sign, the mark, claiming him, announcing that Quentin is taken, he’s taken, he’s Peter’s, don’t fucking touch him.  _

_ Peter puts his hand over it, palm over the indentations of his teeth, his fingers spreading wide across the bloom.  _

_ He should go, he thinks, he should go, go check on his friends, go tell Happy what’s happened, go take care of things and see to the recovery and deal with everything. He should.  _

_ But he can’t - he can’t just leave him. He can’t leave him like this, unprotected, defenseless.  _

_ He can’t leave him.  _

_ He kneels, and he watches over Quentin, and he thinks; is this what winning always feels like?) _

**Author's Note:**

> Aegis: noun (ae-gis)
> 
> 1  
a : protection  
b : controlling or conditioning (mold so as to conform) influence
> 
> 2  
a : auspices, sponsorship  
b : control or guidance especially by an individual, group, or system


End file.
